


flower daze, static maze

by hyacinth_lea



Category: VIXX
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Attempt at surrealism, Dark Fantasy, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, and at fiction, but by the end i promise it does, it may not make sense at first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 20:37:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21416314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyacinth_lea/pseuds/hyacinth_lea
Summary: Maybe it's only the fact that he doesn't want to listen, or perhaps he does. Taekwoon isn't to know after all, he finds himself unable to know.Nothing has changed all in all, and it shows. It only transforms when white ends up tainted, and Taekwoon--he is supposedly where he has to be.
Relationships: Jung Taekwoon | Leo/Kim Wonshik | Ravi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	flower daze, static maze

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, here is I with a small chaptered wontaek. It wasn't supposed to be a chaptered fic but I decided it should be as I started revising the plot so I hope you are on board for this one!
> 
> An advice before you read, this fic was created as a result of a dear sis birthday, therefore I based it on something that we were kinda obsessed over during her summer/my winter. So it may not be everyone's cup of tea, however, if you enjoy reading japanese literature and are a fan of the writer from After Dark :3 then it may suit your fancy. I actually had been reading that and two other of his books and I couldn't help myself to try my hand at urban fantasy.
> 
> It has a bit of my touch, just a bit. It's entirely self indulgent.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the read! it all will make sense by the end^^

When his eyes open only to fix on the white ceiling, it appears as if it were his room._ In fact _ , Taekwoon would be certain that this is quite possibly what he can refer to as his bedroom-- _ their _ bedroom, if he wants to allow for accuracy to be present in his statement. The way he refers to it as exactly like that, so necessity to change the term shouldn’t be there. But it could also be something else entirely different and foreign, a stranger’s bedroom that could probably pass as the vivid image of a piece taken out of a puzzle that had been left incomplete just so that it could do its work of fulfilling that space it was meant to somewhere else. Yet to Taekwoon, the room still reeks of familiarity to the point it could intoxicate anyone who set foot on it--if they were part of it to begin with though. 

At the same time, he knows that maybe he is the puzzle piece that could have been taken out, that the flat at the twelfth floor that overlooks a very busy street and that they both had picked as the perfect place for business and comfort could have been just removed from its place--he lives there with Wonshik, but he is not to know if their home has been ripped, cut like a figurine and transported, without him being notified of the removal of his own bedroom. It could have even ended up being encased in a bigger closed up space to boot. Or thrown to the depths of the ocean for it to sink there and for Taekwoon to be met with sea life upon opening the windows. Or maybe, it’s still his place.

Or so he muses.

The rest of his flat is supposed to be there, if reason decides to keep accompanying him--that’s how it should be. If he were to reach for the door, nothing should have moved itself from the rightful place where he has left each and every single one of them--from furniture to groceries, the windows, the door, everything because that is what the logical side he swears he still possesses is telling him. Yet who is to say he is not going to be met with nothing but pure white upon opening it? Or metal? Perhaps water? Who can tell him that it will even open? 

Nobody is capable of relaying any kind of information to a man that can be stared at from above at ceiling level and pass as some immobile doll--a _ breathtaking _ one at that. Anyone who can be witness of this sight would be able to acknowledge it as the undeniable truth without an ounce of uncertainty clouding their judgement. With a body that pretty much resembles the finest porcelain covered by a flowy white shirt and black loose sweatpants, serene expression and rosy lips parted slightly in an apparent lack of movement as he lays down on _ his _bed, breathing far too imperceptibly that it could be referred to as the perfect sight as he rests on top of pristine sheets and a pillow under his head concedes him the necessary leverage. His dark hair finds them both, rest and an inevitable mess on the soft surface as it shows a sight that would be usual in his morning-a lack of order it could have had at some point in the day prior to this one.

There is no concrete and certain sense of time in the minutes right after waking up, no true hint of how slow or fast it’s moving--no indication of how just a minute can take an eternity to pass or how five become thirty even when it seems only a few seconds have passed. And time has seem to become an entity Taekwoon hasn’t truly been friends with for quite some time.

What happens to be a truth clear as the untarnished ceiling that stares right back at Taekwoon is the fact that it has already been like this for some days, probably weeks, perhaps even months--Taekwoon can’t tell. The endless cycle of waking up to the same place, the same walls, to everything that looks like it hadn’t left its designated location, and it shouldn’t be strange, after all, he is sure that this is his room so waking up to this wouldn’t and _ shouldn’t _be a matter of concern. He wakes up to white, white and nothing but white painted on his walls--but his mind has made a mental note, just to remind him that they were prussian the day before. But Wonshik must have painted them during his sleep, or so Taekwoon tells himself, to enhance the hints of common sense he should be applying right now.

Then it’s his desk across the room, the laptop where Wonshik normally works. The locked up closet where their clothes are and the TV that sits on a glass table. It had always been there, as background noise provider, as an object meant to decorate, at times as information giver. Now it’s one of the only few things Taekwoon has left the moment he can actually bring himself to move from the bed.

It’s not that constant, but it has been increasing as of lately--the times it calls him. That television, at times it calls to him, when he turns it on to watch it or when he idly sits on the ground, feigning apparent interest and the sole act of watching it. At times, it calls Taekwoon on its own, with static rising in its frequency, drumming ever so loudly in his ears while silence befalls the rest of the room, while silence covers every inch of the place but the place where he is at.

Taekwoon slowly rises to his feet, _ ‘It’s my room’ _ he says, so he should show the control he is meant to have in what’s considered his space, despite wherever said place is currently at--it could have been cut and used to replace another flat at the biggest skyscraper in the city, and yet he still wouldn’t know. After a quick scan, it hits him--he used to have windows and now they aren’t there. Maybe Wonshik took them out when he had been sleeping.

He can’t deny that the lack of knowledge is truthfully present, but he wouldn’t really care if he finds out what’s happening or not.In the end, the result of countless of inquiries would not change anything but make him find reasons as to why the windows have disappeared and the absurdity of it because light still floods his room.

He hums, _ ‘Ah Shik-ah, Shik-ah’ _ as if in a small kind of reprimanding, it has been a long time since he has seen him. Though he is aware of the fact that he also hasn't left the room in a while so what happens when he falls into the realm of sleep, in the haze that makes hours rush by just so that he goes back to the inability of telling minutes apart is unknown. Yet Taekwoon is painfully aware that anything and everything can take place when sleep conquers him.

His steps make him walk forward, in direction to the TV, and he pats the top of it--lightly as if it were to break and turn into sand the moment he least expects it. It's outdated in comparison to the one that he remembers having, nothing like the widescreen high definition TV he remembers--this one resembles the ones he remembers having at his parents’ home when he was a kid. It’s familiar though in the foreign nature of it nowadays, and he waits for a few seconds for something to happen. His hand lingers, waiting for his touch to elicit some reaction, “It’s late”, he tells the object, as if it were going to reply to him. Taekwoon can’t discern if his words are an statement about the lateness of the events that regularly happen, or an invitation for it to do something--anything that shows there is another presence other than his own.

He crouches, elbows resting on either knee, gaze fixed on the dead screen. There is an evident lack of life in the old TV and the black in it is so deep that it could reach the pits of hell, so profound like the bottom of the sea--too dark his reflection cannot be found in the expansion that forms the screen. He pats it once again, lips turning into a small pout and making his voice surface, "There are times you don't want anything to do with me,huh?"

There is the sound of a clock ticking, but Taekwoon can't really see it--hypothesizing that maybe it's early in the morning for the way the clock sounds is with that eerie vibe when time decides to go against you, when it decides to rip the minutes that are much needed but seep through his fingers like invisible sand. But time has behaved in an uncanny and indifferent way towards him, as if he was an anomaly that needed not to know of it. 

He brings a hand to his neck, fingers lightly grazing his throat, _ 'Ah' _ he lets out, not in pain but in surprise. Fingers trailing alongside his skin, as if he was unsure of how it is still there--by _ it _ he refers to the expanse of flesh that he refers to as his neck, the insecurity of whether it's misplaced follows, or how it even is there. Because by now he thinks that it's impossible for there to be any logical way for it to be intact. 

If any viewer would see him as an inanimate doll, it would make sense to Taekwoon that there should be cuts and joints that would keep his everything in place--articulations like the ones he remembers his friend that attends an art class had present, not in him but his wooden mannequins that adorned the shelves in his studio. 

Taekwoon thinks that somehow someway, it is somehow there.

He gives a light hit to the top of the TV, frown coming to adorn his features following suit, "Wonshik-ah, do you hear?" The electronic isn't calling out to him today, so he will make it work so Wonshik can hear, perhaps it ends up doing the trick so that it prompts him to come back earlier now. Perhaps he can see him again since it has been long ever since they were together despite living in the same place. 

It takes a few minutes, but it seems to do the trick. There are lines showing on the screen, flickering in a horizontal pattern. The image is noisy, yet it is not unusual for it always starts like this. It always takes its time for the lines to start transforming into something that hold at least crumbles of coherency. The first time it had happened, Taekwoon couldn’t help the fear that started to crawl into his system--yet now it's the only thing he can look at to pass his day. 

It's still hazy, blurry, image unfocused with no apparent will to turn into something he can discern. Taekwoon sighs, it's not going to make him come back, the noise won't decide to help because after all, it can’t go out of his room--Taekwoon _ can’t _ go out of his room. 

He keeps his eyes fixed on the screen until it turns into something he recognizes. It mirrors the place where he is at but the difference is that his memory doesn’t fail him for that's his room in there. Prussian, vivid, lively. The rug is still there, the wine covers he remembers having bought before the night he tried to confess to Wonshik still and untouched on his bed. 

There are two beds in the room that is being shown to him through the screen, he knows it's maybe a representation of the past because in his bedroom a lot has been changed--and not by him. But he waits, for something to change in the stillness of what's being projected to him.

Hours pass, mentally keeping track of the entity whose track he has entirely lost by now. Time doesn't really favour him when it's plenty and it expands like water that can’t be contained. Nothing has seemed to change.

It never does.

Yet for an unknown reason today, he finds that change is between the realm of possibilities--not as his grasp, but not unreachable either. He blinks, once, twice as the image changes. The TV shows him, Wonshik, entering the room that it displays, accessing their room as a long and audible heavy sigh leaves him. He looks as dazzling as usual, tight black jeans hugging his long legs, an elegant leather jacket covering his frame. He crouches in front of Taekwoon’s bed, jeans caressing the rug, before he moves and lays down on the one that is supposed to belong to him. Taekwoon thinks the TV is playing some old video, the quality reminding him of a VCR--yet he is aware that no device is connected to it, or that TV isn’t plugged into any outlet for that matter.

He lays there, Wonshik just lays there without moving for some minutes, “Shik-ah?” Taekwoon says as he places his palms on the screen. Lips agape in surprise because of the reality he displays despite the size of the image and the quality. Yet, it really has been some time ever since Taekwoon has been able to see Wonshik and it can’t be helped the moment his heart goes, the moment his heart beats stammer inside his ribcage and blurring the steady pace it had some seconds ago, “Wonshik-ah”

Taekwoon wishes at times like this that his head was actually disconnected from his body, that he was but the inanimate doll he resembles when he is sleeping--at least that way he wouldn't need to feel it. The burning that goes through him upon saying Wonshik’s name.

He wouldn't need to feel the way his breathing loses all control that it once had, how his body falls forward to the ground while his eyes stay fixed on the screen. "Wonshik-ah" he lets out, hoarse. Arms wrapping around his middle and because of that--he _ really _wishes his head wasn't connected to his body in this moment.

Because the way Taekwoon chokes at the mention of Wonshik’s name when it burns too much is something that Taekwoon would rather not feel--yet he knows he is going to, he knows that is what awaits him. He has since that night, silently so--evading any mention of it. Knowing full well that if his mind wasn’t on Wonshik, he wouldn't have to suffer through this.

But it's not that easy to get him out of his mind. Not when his system does this, making him violently cough while holding tightly onto himself as if he was the only support he had. It tears him apart, tears his throat apart. He recognizes the way it's blooming, but it's never any less painful.

Thorns tear it, the whole body of it makes his mouth full. And even as tears form in his eyes, he still knows it's not going to change for it will happen whenever he sees Wonshik. And that's why Taekwoon doesn't even come into his bedroom anymore. The coughs are vicious, but they are always right. It's after a few seconds when he opens his eyes that he greets them again, in full tainted bloom. Roses, in petals, in full, and drops of fresh scarlet.

His gaze lowers slightly to take notice of the mess this has resulted in, pristine white tarnished, from his skin, his shirt and when he glances upwards he notices how scarlet drops are even blemishing his walls. A masterpiece like the one he is when he only sleeps. The static only going louder yet being interrupted by his erratic panting. How he wishes he was a doll, all they do is be unconscious. 

He manages to take a last look at the screen, it goes void of life when the cursed box seems to have all of Taekwoon’s attention but it doesn’t want to gift him some minutes. At least it can't see him a bloodied mess.

At least it went off, and Wonshik with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> belated birthday present for: [Kandi_lillies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kandi_lilies) [though you did read the first draft on your birthday, but I still hope you find it enjoyable now]
> 
> Hello! If you are reading all the way until here and you chose to give this AU a chance, I really want to thank you for dropping by! Hope that you guys enjoy if you decide to keep on reading! ^^ it would be my pleasure to know your impressions if possible. Again, thank you for reading, hopefully we see each other soon with a new chapter :3
> 
> Again, it's extremely self indulgent, but I hope it's at least a nice read ^^;
> 
> ~/Find me on:  
[//❥❥twitter//](https://twitter.com/hyacinth_lea) [//❥❥CuriousCat//](https://curiouscat.me/hyacinth_lea)[//❥❥Tumblr//](https://hyacinthlea.tumblr.com/)


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